


Bicker! Bicker! Snipe! Snipe!

by Mums_the_Word



Series: pre-series AU [5]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While undercover, Peter's life is put in danger because of Neal Caffrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bicker! Bicker! Snipe! Snipe!

**Author's Note:**

> Although part of a series, this can be a stand alone fan fiction.

 

       Peter stared at the long list of high-end robberies that had been taking place in the city for the last several months. The victims of these thefts were the extremely wealthy movers and shakers of the realm, the entitled elite with ostentatious affluence and a lot of clout with the powers that be in Gotham City. Ergo, pressure had been applied by those on high to solve the cases _now!_ After so much time without a lead, it had become an embarrassment for the FBI.

      The missing merchandise was an eclectic mix. Everything from Ming vases to Rembrandts was fair game to the thief or thieves. Since different insurance companies covered the losses, it didn’t appear as if any one indemnity company was being targeted or fraud involved.

      The White Collar unit had gone over the crime scenes with meticulous care and found absolutely nothing to aid in their search for the perpetrators. What baffled Peter, however, was that the “feel” of the scenes was inconsistent. When the crimes had first commenced, there was usually small telltale evidence left behind such as scratches on a door frame, smudges of talc on the carpet, fringe on a drapery disturbed. Lately, however, the premises were absolutely pristine. It was almost as if a painting simply took itself off the wall and left through the front door while the owners attended the mayor’s dinner party. It was perplexing, not to mention frustrating.

      Finally the Bureau seemed to have caught a break. By tenacious digging and use of confidential informants on the street, the White Collar division seemed to be making some headway. A name had emerged from the shadowy underground. In that particular world of unscrupulous people in the know, a “go-to guy” was identified as the one you contacted when you wanted something that someone else had, and they were not amenable to parting with it. Marcus Kirshner became a person of interest for the Bureau.

      Marcus Kirshner was ostensibly in the import/export business and had a small storefront on the Lower East Side of the city. He paid the rent on his shop each month as well as his apartment on Mott Street, filed his taxes each year, and had no outstanding warrants or a criminal record of any kind.  It was noted that he was registered to own a firearm and had a permit to carry a gun for protection. A pistol had subsequently been purchased and likewise registered in his name. Aside from that blip, he appeared to be just your average citizen, quite under the radar. But according to informed sources, he was the middleman whom you approached with your shopping list. For a sizable fee, he was said to utilize some very gifted talent to fill that wish list. The Bureau needed a sting to scoop him up and whoever his assets were who performed the heists.

    With that as a goal, Peter Burke morphed into Richard Wyatt, a successful up and coming Wall Street broker who needed the accoutrements of wealth to impress and emulate the noueveau riche clients that he sought to cultivate. The back-story that the FBI had created was bulletproof. He was armed with the correct references when he contacted Kirshner and requested a particular small bronze sculpture done by Edgar Degas. Unlike the ballet dancers for which the artist is most renowned, this small piece was called “Horse Trotting – Feet Not Touching the Ground.”  Once on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, it had now been returned to its owner and was “stabled” in her massive brownstone on 5th Avenue.

      After Kirshner did his research and concluded that the object was indeed “available” for purchase, he contacted Wyatt (Peter), and they set a price of $350,000 for its acquisition. Since half of the purchase price was to be provided upfront, Peter made an appointment to meet with Kirshner the next night in the office behind his showroom. The FBI would happily arrest the middleman, but they also wanted to take down those he employed to do the heavy lifting. With that in mind, Peter had insisted that he meet the actual burglar or crew before he handed over any money. Kirshner waffled on this, saying that this was not something he routinely did, but Peter was adamant.

      The next evening, Peter arrived at the store to be met by two very muscle-bound gentlemen, blatantly armed, who escorted him to the back office. Peter had a briefcase in hand containing $125,000. He was also wearing a Rolex knockoff that was transmitting every word to his team in the surveillance van a half block away. Everyone knew the take down phrase and would wait for Peter’s direction. The middleman had already sealed his fate by agreeing to set up this deal and accepting the payoff. Now they just needed an agreement to do the job from the actual perpetrator to make a clean sweep of this crime spree.

      Kirshner was all bonhomie when Peter arrived, offering him a drink from the single malt Scotch sitting on the table. He assured Peter that the “craftsman” he was going to use for the robbery would appear soon. “He’s the absolute epitome of excellence,” Kirshner extolled, “a real genius with extraordinary talent for this particular enterprise.”

     The middleman claimed he had used others before, but after seeing this man’s expertise, he employed him whenever he was available and would agree to the job. Oddly enough, the guy apparently possessed a creative nature and would only entertain tasks that were challenging and almost impossible to execute. Peter was becoming very anxious to lay eyes on this paragon of brilliance. He didn’t have long to wait.

      The back door of the office swung open quietly. When Peter looked up at the newcomer, he came face to face with Neal Caffrey! The young conman’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Peter, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Neal, however, was amazed and delighted to encounter his favorite FBI stalker. This was just too karmic for words. Neal surmised that Peter was undercover with his merry little minions lurking outside. However, Neal just couldn’t pass up an opportunity to pluck Peter’s nerves and have some fun while the agent was at a temporary disadvantage of not wanting to blow his cover. True, Peter could bring all this to a crashing halt with one word spoken into a wire, but Neal reasoned that he had a tiny bit of wiggle room for the moment.

      Kirshner, completely oblivious to any tension, glibly introduced the two men.

      “We use first names only in this transaction,” he insisted. “Richard, this is Nick. Nick meet Richard, your patron for this project.”

      Peter knew that with one word from Caffrey, “Richard Wyatt” would be a dead man. If the conman ratted him out, the two sumo wrestlers with guns, or even Kirshner, himself, would undoubtedly kill him before his team could respond to a distress call. But in his heart, Peter didn’t think that Neal wanted his demise. Somehow, and Peter wasn’t even sure why it had happened, the two had forged a bond even though they were adversaries. They played their cat and mouse game of one-upmanship with flamboyant panache, and incredible as it seemed, they liked and respected each other. True, Peter wanted to arrest Neal, but he reasoned that he would be doing the young man a favor by protecting him from himself and the life he led.

      So, Peter held his breath, and after they had stared at each other for what seemed like forever, Caffrey smiled cynically at Peter and smirked, “So, this is the social-climbing ‘wanna-be’ with an aspiration for culture.”

      Much relieved, Peter determined that it was game on! He immediately returned the insult in kind. “So this is the ‘titan of illegal industry.’ He doesn’t look that impressive to me!”

      “Gentleman?” Kirshner was confused by the sudden hostility in the air and sought to defuse it. “Come, sit. Have a drink.” He quickly put three glasses onto the table and began to pour.

      “Is this punk even old enough to drink?” taunted Peter. “He doesn’t look mature enough to have graduated from high school let alone ‘Criminal College 101.’”

      Neal lobbed a salvo right back. “I’m old enough to drink and savvy enough to foil many an old fossil in some austere institutions. Apparently the poor deluded souls could use a little extra credit work to hone the so-called skills required by their jobs.”  With that he downed the Scotch in one gulp without a grimace. Peter matched his action with a scowl.

      “So, you’ve done this kind of work before, Nick?” Peter/Richard asked innocently.

      Neal recognized the groundwork that the FBI agent was laying to trap him into an admission of guilt, so he easily side-stepped that one. “Oh, I am a Renaissance man, Richard. I do all kinds of work, but basically I am a free-lance artist who provides an ‘honest’ day’s work for anyone who employs me for my talent. Are you employing me, Richard? Would you like me to paint you a picture?”

      “No thanks, Nick, I think I already have the picture,” Peter retorted.

      “From what I hear, it’s not a picture that you want, but something a bit more substantial. A horse, per chance? Tell me, Richard, do you not like ballerinas? Not macho enough for you? I’m surprised that you would even have knowledge of other aspects of Degas’ work.”

      Peter just glared at him.

      After a pause, Neal continued, “You’re over-reaching, Richard. Degas is a bit too sophisticated for someone who is probably more suited to Norman Rockwell.”

      Peter knew his blood pressure was rising. “Look, Mr. Renaissance, I want that Degas sculpture for a collection that I am putting together. In my line of work, impressions are important. So, no critiques, okay.” Peter really wanted to wrap this up.

      “Now what line of work might that be?” Neal questioned.

      “I’m a broker on Wall Street, if you must know,” Peter answered curtly.

      “Apparently not a very successful one, if those threads that you’re sporting are any indication. ‘Mens Wearhouse,’ perhaps?” Neal mused with his head cocked to the side.

      Peter had thought that he convincingly looked the part of a trader with a conservative sport coat over a fitted shirt with French cuffs. Peter eyed Neal critically. The outrageous outfit the conman was wearing included torn jeans, a flannel shirt over a “Pearl Jam” t-shirt and Doc Martens.

      “That snide remark is the best you can do?” Peter demanded. “A snarky observation coming from a punk trying to pull off the grunge look is all you’ve got?” he asked incredulously. “Not quite the debonair sophistication of Cary Grant in ‘To Catch A Thief.’ More like a ratty looking James Dean in ‘Rebel Without a Cause.’ Did you know, Nick, that the title of that movie was based on a book written by a psychiatrist named Robert M. Lindner in 1944. The title of his publication was ‘ _Rebel Without a Cause: The Hypnoanalysis of a Criminal Psychopath_.’” Peter smiled maliciously.

     Neal merely frowned at Peter before he returned the sarcasm, “Who knew that such a pompous usurper could be so erudite?”

      “Look, kid, I’m through verbally sparring with your smart mouth. Are you going to steal the Degas sculpture for me, or not?” Peter demanded menacingly.

     Neal scowled right back. “If you wish to hire me for my talent as an artist, the answer is no. The cost for employing that talent is way above your pay grade, Richard. If you’re into comparisons, I’m the Lamborghini Aventador to your Ford Taurus.” With that being said, Neal stood, downed another shot of liquor, and literally flounced from the room.

     Kirshner’s mouth hung open. “I don’t know what just happened here. He’s never acted like that before. Usually Nick’s very mild mannered and professional. I guess those artistic types can get temperamental from time to time. But don’t worry, Richard. I have other people that I can contact to get this job done for you.”

     Peter sighed. Better to have a bird in the hand. Kirshner had clearly admitted that he was the broker for crime and incriminated himself on tape, so he would no longer be able to avail himself of the services of his “criminal extraordinaire” from a jail cell. Peter gave the take down signal and his team arrived to arrest him as well as his muscle in the store. Meanwhile, the FBI agent had no admission of intended wrongdoing from Neal Caffrey, who had managed to slip unseen past all the agents set around the perimeter. At this point in time, bond forgery was still the only albatross that they could hang around his neck if they ever caught up with him.

     Later that evening, while Peter was writing up his report, a text came into his phone from an unknown number. He sighed as it read it. “That was a lot of fun tonight, Peter. We really must do it again some time. I’ll tell my people to get in touch with your people. Maybe we can do lunch ;-).”

     Peter grimaced. He really, really hated emoticons!

  


End file.
